Munichs, page 32
*
Late in the night, still at the ground, in his office up the stairs, Jimmy put down the phone and Jimmy cried, he howled, No, please, God, no, no, no –
He sagged forward in his seat, his head in his hands on his desk, and he wept –
He wept, he cursed, he raged, then wept again. He could not stop his tears, his tears of loss and grief, but tears of anger and of fury, too –
Fuck, fuck, fuck, he cursed and he raged. Why let the poor boy survive and live at all? Why do this to him, to his poor parents, to all of us? Why give us fucking hope where there was no hope, there never was …?
The greatest day of my life, Jimmy had told the press after the game on Wednesday night, what an idiot, what a fucking fool he’d been to say such a bloody stupid, stupid thing. The greatest day of your life? Well, look at you now, Murphy. Where your mouth has got you now.
But he had seen something wonderful that night, he had, and he’d thought that it might, just might be the beginning of a great build-up, that the future might, just might have its sunshine, too, and he’d hoped, he’d prayed it could come true, it would be true. But at the centre of his prayers, the heart of his hopes was Duncan, always Duncan, that somehow, against all odds, against all reason, Duncan would not only survive, but rise and recover to play again. Not only to play again, but to captain and lead the team, a symbol of triumph out of disaster, of hope over despair, of answered –
The telephone on his desk was ringing again, ringing and ringing. Jimmy wiped his eyes, his face, he stared at the telephone awhile, then picked it up, listened to the voice on the line telling him that Manchester United and England had lost a great footballer, asking him if Duncan would have been the greatest footballer his club and country had ever known …?
Yes, said Jimmy, whispered Jimmy, the club and England have lost a great footballer. But I have lost a friend, a very dear friend. This is the final blow.
*
Professor Maurer knew they had to tell Ray Wood, Dennis Viollet, Albert Scanlon and Kenny Morgans. Their wives, their loved ones would be here to visit them soon, and they would know by now; the whole world knew by now, all except the survivors in the Rechts der Isar Hospital.
I have some bad news, said Professor Maurer. Duncan Edwards died early this morning.
What, said Kenny Morgans.
Unfortunately, his kidneys were so badly bruised that they just would not work, said Professor Maurer, and the artificial kidney and the blood transfusions just could not keep his bloodstream clean. But you should know that he was not in pain. He died peacefully in his sleep.
I just don’t believe it, said Kenny Morgans. The nurse took me up to see him, just a few days ago. He was sleeping, but he looked okay, I thought the worst –
I know, said Professor Maurer, but it is incredible to all of us here that he survived for as long as he did. It was only his immense physical strength and superhuman will to live that enabled him to cling to life.
I can’t believe it, said Kenny Morgans, turning to Ray and Dennis and Albert, can you?
Ray and Dennis and Albert had their eyes closed, raised to the ceiling or hidden behind their hands. They shook their heads and said, No.
*
Each morning, Cissie had greeted Bobby with the latest newspaper reports from the hospital in Munich. Some of the recent bulletins had been optimistic, and Bobby’s hopes had grown again. But that Friday morning, as soon as she saw the headline, Cissie hid the paper before Bobby got up and came down, then she went to make him his favourite breakfast of ham, eggs and mushrooms.
But the moment he came down into the room, Bobby asked, Where’s the paper, Mother?
It mustn’t have come yet, love, said Cissie. You just get on with your breakfast, while it’s still hot. Should make the most of them, before you –
Bobby pushed the plate away. I don’t want any breakfast, he said. Duncan’s dead, isn’t he?
*
Frank Taylor knew something had happened, that something was wrong the minute that Doctor Taylor entered their room that morning. He usually came in with a spring in his step, a joke on his lips, doing his best to raise the spirits of Frank and especially of Jackie. But not that morning, that morning Doctor Taylor came in quietly, slowly, with the hint of a frown, not a smile, as he asked, Now then, chaps, how are we both today?
Can’t fault the room service, laughed Frank, but Doctor Taylor only nodded, smiled at Frank, went over then to Jackie’s bed, examined Jackie’s arm again, said something like, Won’t be long now, I shouldn’t think, before Professor Maurer sets your arm, Jackie.
That’s good, is it, asked Jackie.
Oh, yes, said Doctor Taylor, and then he looked across at Frank and said, Be your turn then, Frank.
I’d best keep my diary clear then, hadn’t I, Doc, laughed Frank again, at his own joke again.
But Doctor Taylor only nodded, smiled at Frank again, went then towards the door, but at the door he stopped, he turned, coughed then said, There’s no point keeping it from you both. You both are well enough. But I am afraid I have some bad news for you both. I know you’ll understand, but Duncan couldn’t quite make it. He died early this morning, very peacefully in his sleep –
Oh, God, said Frank. His poor parents.
I know you won’t tell Matt Busby, said Doctor Taylor, but please be careful not to let anything slip. He’s still too ill to be told anything yet.
Of course, said Frank. Loose lips, all that.
Doctor Taylor nodded, briefly smiled at Frank, glanced at Jackie, then said, I know you both understand. Everything that could be done, was done. I’ll see you both later, and went then quickly from the room.
Frank turned to look at Jackie in the next bed, saw the tears rolling, streaming down his cheeks, the despair, the sheer, black despair being carved into his face, and Frank said, Stick it, son, stick it. We can’t help Duncan now, he’s gone. Think of your wife, she’ll soon be here. Don’t let her see you like this –
But Jackie Blanchflower turned his face away, reached out with his good arm, pulled the bedclothes up and over his head and buried himself in his bed.
*
Jimmy had no idea how they would, even could get back up again, keep on going now. But that Friday morning, Harry Gregg, Billy Foulkes, Ian Greaves, Freddie Goodwin, Ronnie Cope, Stan Crowther, Colin Webster, Ernie Taylor, Alex Dawson, Mark Pearson and Shay Brennan did get back up again, did keep on going, even Ronnie with a slight calf strain, Pearson and Brennan with their bruised feet and shins, all of them with their hearts broken all over again, they all got back up again, all ready to keep on going, and so Jimmy could pick the same team again for the League match against Nottingham Forest tomorrow; Murphy’s Marvels, the press had called them in one paper, much to Jimmy’s annoyance, Murphy’s Chicks in another, Murphy’s Mites –
No one seemed to understand that for Matt and Jimmy, for Bert and Tom, for Bill and Arthur and Joe, the performance of the fourth and fifth teams had always been as important as that of the senior teams, that the future of any club lies in its youngsters, and that was why, before the crash, they had a first-class Central League side which had included six full internationals. Yes, Brennan, Dawson and Pearson had all played well on Wednesday night, despite their youth, their inexperience, and deserved all the accolades, but Jimmy knew he was bringing them into League football too fast, far ahead of their time. It was one thing to blood a young lad into a team of experienced pros, but another thing altogether to promote a whole batch of them up in one go. But what choice did he have, what else could he do?
Because not only did he have to pick the first team, he had to pick a side to play Sheffield Wednesday in the Central League, over at Hillsborough tomorrow, and when he looked again down the list he’d written out, after he’d thought through the options once again, those endless discussions he’d had with Bill and Arthur, Joe and Jack, he could have bloody wept again, if he had any fucking tears left to shed. But that list was the best that they had, the only side they could name: Gaskell, Smith, Cummings, English, Holland, Bratt, Spratt, Harrop, Mooney, Giles and Hunter; of these eleven, only David Gaskell and Bobby Harrop were regulars in the Central League, three of them would be making their debuts, and the average age of the side would be seventeen. But what choice did he have, what else could he do?
*
Gladstone, Annie and Molly had asked if they could see Duncan one last time, to say goodbye, but when they saw Duncan lying in the hospital mortuary, Annie and Molly could not say goodbye, they could not let him go, they just could not, would not let Duncan go, and the doctors, the nurses, they came again with their sedatives, but with the orderlies, too, to help prise Annie and Molly away, away from Duncan, to get them back to the hotel, to pack in a daze, take them out to the airport and onto a plane and away, away from Munich, away from Duncan –
Just get me out of here, Mum. I’ve got better things to do than lying around in here all day …
For a few brief, kind seconds, when she opened her eyes Annie did not know where she was, why she was strapped into a seat, on a plane, up in the sky, the air, but then those few brief, kind seconds were gone and she remembered. She had never said how good he was, nor Dad, they never said nothing to him like that. They wouldn’t, never did. She’d never even told him that she loved him. But she did. She thought there was nobody like him in the world. But she never told him –
I need to get back …
*
They had to open the gates early, at one o’clock that afternoon, two hours before kick-off, there were that many people at Old Trafford again, and then they had to close and lock the gates early, thousands left outside the ground again, inside a post-war record crowd of over sixty-six thousand for the League match against Nottingham Forest. But it was a quiet, hushed and sombre crowd that watched the Very Reverend Herbert Jones, Dean of Manchester, and the Reverend Herbert Price, President of the Free Church Federal Council, first lead out an official party that included the Yugoslav Ambassador, representatives of the Yugoslav Football Association and Red Star Belgrade, the Lord Mayor and Lady Mayoress of Manchester, and the Mayors of Salford and Stretford. They gathered on the muddy pitch as the crowd removed their hats, their caps and bowed their heads, and then the Dean of Manchester began the brief interdenominational memorial service with prayers for the Dead, the injured, their families, their friends and all who mourned, and with a prayer for the club, too, and which concluded with a reading from Pilgrim’s Progress and then another minute’s silence, and in that silent, silent minute snow began to fall upon Old Trafford, the crowd, the pitch, and at the minute’s end, when Bill Foulkes came running out of the tunnel, leading out the team, turning right, heading down towards the Warwick Road end again, at that very moment down in London, at the airport, a special BEA flight from Munich touched down, bringing the body of Duncan back home.
*
Jim Thain was the most hated man in England, a man most people seemed to wish was dead, wished his family dead, too, so he might then know how it felt, whom many would even murder if they could, judging from the letters he received, his wife, his parents, too, the things that people said to him, to them, when they stopped him or them in the street, on the rare occasions he or they now did go out. Some weren’t best pleased with Busby either, believed Busby should have stopped Thain, the damn fool, but then again, Thain was the captain, the man in charge, the man who was responsible and thus the man to blame.
The British Airline Pilots’ Association had stood by Jim Thain, at least, had been supportive, had complained that British European Airways should never have allowed Jim Thain and his surviving crew members to be subjected to such an ‘exhausting and exhaustive grilling by the Press’ in the immediate aftermath of the accident. The BALPA believed BEA should have prevented its staff from being subjected to ‘such rough – one might even say inhuman – treatment’.
But Jim Thain just wished no one would speak to the bloody press, not even, or particularly, anyone from British European Airways. No doubt Anthony Milward, the Chief Executive of BEA, was a decent enough chap and had perhaps meant well, had probably tried to take the brunt of the press in order to spare Jim Thain and his crew, but the things Milward had said to the press, they had only made things worse.
First, on arriving in Munich on the day of the crash, Milward had openly discussed the possibility of sabotage. Then, when Milward returned to London, he had suggested that the fact that a house was situated three hundred yards from the end of the runway meant that what very probably might have been a simple overshoot had become a major disaster.
Of course, these remarks had been reported not only in the British press, but in the West German press, too, and the West German authorities had been quick to issue an official retort, and for Jim Thain, a damning one, and one which was widely reported in the British press, too –
After a preliminary investigation, the West German Traffic and Transport Ministry said that the fact that the aircraft did not leave the ground was probably the result of ice on the wings and, they added, Captain Thain had yet to give a satisfactory explanation of why he did not discontinue the final attempt to take off.
It seemed to Jim Thain that Milward’s bloody stupid intervention had given the Germans and their Chief Accident Investigator all the incentive they needed to contend for a particular result, hanging him out to dry in the process, blackening his name with the public, all in advance of any inquiry –
People have to blame somebody if they have something go wrong, said his wife, and I suppose you are the obvious person, dear.
I know, said Jim Thain. My biggest mistake was staying alive. But I’ll be damned if I let them make a scapegoat of me –
Every waking minute of every hour of every day, Jim Thain went over and over, again and again, the events of that day, that hour, those final minutes, until Jim Thain was more sure than ever that the snow was thawing on the wings on the aircraft, more certain than ever that the aircraft’s speed was retarded not by a failure in the engines but on the ground, that the large quantity of snow which had built up at the end of the runway had prevented the aircraft from accelerating, that the crash then occurred because of the amount of drag caused by excessive slush on the runway, and so Jim Thain would ensure that the German inquiry was in possession of every single piece of information with any bearing on the accident. He would submit his formal report. He would provide appendices that detailed take-off procedures. He would also provide reports dealing with slush and its observed effects on aircraft. His wife Ruby was a science graduate, and she would conduct experiments to prove there was no ice on the wings at the time of take-off, that the ice found on the wings of the wreckage formed after the accident. Jim and Ruby Thain would clear Jim’s name, but not only for the sake of his reputation, his good name, but to help to determine the true cause of the crash, to help avoid another disaster, prevent more deaths, more grief.
For in the waking minutes, the hours of the night when Jim Thain could not sleep, he was haunted by the thoughts of Ken Rayment, his poor wife, poor family, the medical bulletins issued each day which reported a deterioration in Ken’s condition and gave only cause for concern, not hope, praying in those minutes, those hours that Ken might live, his wife, his family be spared his loss, the grief. But in those same waking minutes, hours, Jim was haunted, too, by the words of Captain Hans Reichel, the Chief Inspector of Accidents, the exchange that he and Jim had had in Munich, two days after the disaster, when Jim suggested to Captain Reichel that the quantity of snow, the excessive slush on the runway had prevented the aircraft from accelerating and taking off –
Of course, Reichel replied, the captain should know his aircraft and under what conditions he can attempt to take off, wouldn’t you agree, Captain Thain?
*
Throughout the last Sunday in February, there were memorial services across Manchester. First, at three o’clock in the afternoon, there was a Protestant service at the cathedral, attended by two thousand people, with many more outside. The Yugoslav Ambassador, Mister Vejvoda, and representatives of the Yugoslav Football Association and Red Star Belgrade attended this service, too, and heard the Dean of Manchester tell the congregation, Association Football is for millions what ballet is for others. It is a great art, and some of its greatest artists have been lost. Now it could be said, he said, that such things are just examples of mass hysteria or juvenile hero worship, as has been claimed, but between Manchester United and their support, and between sports writers and their readers, there is a family feeling unlike anything I have known. Then, at five o’clock, there was a Jewish service at the South Manchester Synagogue on Wilbraham Road, with special prayers for Henry Rose. Then there was an interdenominational service at a quarter to seven, at the Albert Hall on Peter Street, attended by one thousand, seven hundred and fifty people. Finally, there was a Roman Catholic service at a quarter past eight that evening, at Belle Vue speedway stadium, which drew a crowd of more than six thousand people for the Solemn High Mass at the King’s Hall there. Ten double-decker buses were needed to bring the people from one Manchester parish.
But that Sunday, Jimmy, Jack and Joe, Bill and Arthur, Les and Alma did not, could not attend any of the memorial services in Manchester. Early in the morning, Jimmy went to Mass, as he always did, every Sunday morning, and then he went back to Old Trafford, as he always had, every Sunday morning, but not to sit and chat with Matt, as they always had, about the game the day before, all the games the day before, but to sit up in his office with Jack and Joe, and Bill and Arthur, and Ted Dalton, the club physio, too, to talk over the games the day before, both the first-team and the Central League games.
We started well enough, said Arthur, really should have been three up, in fact, and that first half-hour Harrop, Giles, English and Bratt, they all played very well. But it was a heavy pitch, and they tired, of course, and once Cummings had to come off, then we didn’t really stand much chance. It was two–nil when he came off, so four–nil flattered Sheffield somewhat.
